Author: Peg Kehret

Today I baked zucchini cookies, one of my favorites. I love cookies! Besides zucchini, I love snickerdoodles, chocolate chip (milk chocolate, with nuts), peanut butter, rolled sugar cookies, oatmeal (no raisins) and – well, you get the picture. There is something comforting about baking cookies, perhaps because I have happy memories of baking cookies with my children and grandchildren. Anne always wanted to eat the raw cookie dough. Once when she was away at college, I mailed her a small ball of raw cookie dough and she claims it was the most successful dorm package of her college career.

I didn’t see any meteors because it’s been raining for two days. We needed the rain. As I gazed out my office window at the downpour, I realized that part of the drip…drip…drip that I heard was inside the house. Water was leaking through a bathroom skylight and dripping on to the toilet seat. At least it didn’t do any damage there, and my repairman will be out to take care of the problem. If he’s lucky there will still be some cookies left when he arrives.

While I wait for editorial suggestions on my new book (still untitled) I’ve been working this week on an adult novel that I started a few years back. Maybe this time I will finish it. I’ve also done more reading than usual, including some authors who are new to me. My idea of a perfect evening is to settle in my recliner with Lucy on my lap, a hot cup of coffee beside me, and a good book. It doesn’t hurt to have a few cookies within reach, too.

The meteor showers will be at their peak on Aug. 12. I love to lie outdoors, watching for “shooting stars.” I did it as a child, I’ve done it many times with my grandchildren, and I still get excited every time I spot a meteor streaking across the sky.  I used this experience in Runaway Twin – one more piece of my own life that’s been transplanted to my fiction.

There are no street lights or neighbor porch lights out here in the woods, which makes for excellent star gazing. If the sky is clear on Aug. 12, Lucy and I will snuggle under a blanket outside for a few hours, gazing upward.

If you opened my refrigerator right now, you’d probably wonder why I have a bowl containing watermelon rinds and an apple core. It’s because the weather’s been so dry this month that the deer have little grass or other greenery to graze on. When it starts to get dark, I will toss the watermelon rinds and apple core, along with any carrot tops or other leftover greenery, under my bird feeder. The deer come every night to eat the spilled bird seed and they will find these extra treats. When my windows are open, I hear them crunching the watermelon, apparently with great gusto.

Today I am wearing my Disney World 1999 T-shirt, a souvenir of Brett’s tenth birthday trip.

My parents took each of my children and my brother’s children on a special trip when that child turned ten. As soon as we had grandkids, Carl and I knew we wanted to continue the tenth birthday trip tradition, and we had great fun planning those excursions.

Brett was first. I was invited to speak at a conference in Orlando the week of her tenth birthday, and that seemed a fine destination for a child. It was also a way for her to see me in my professional role. We had so much fun that a year later when I returned to Orlando for my first Florida Young Reader Award, we took her with us again.

Chelsea’s trip came next. She liked country music, so we spent several days in Branson, Missouri, seeing all the shows, including the Radio City Rockettes.  We took Eric, our wildlife watcher, on a cruise to Alaska. I’m not sure which he liked best – our visit to a raptor rehabilitation center or the unlimited buffet meals on board ship. Mark, our baseball fan, went with us to see the Seattle Mariners play in Los Angeles, where we ended up on TV as we cheered for an M’s homerun. My son, Bob, taped the game, so I have a video that shows Carl, me, and Mark clapping and yelling at the ballpark. Of course, since we were in L.A., we also went to Disneyland.

The tenth birthday trips are a special bond. When Eric comes to visit, we use my Alaska mug. When the Mariners play in L.A., Mark and I look at the TV screen and find where our seats were. When the Rockettes came to Seattle, we all went to see the show that Chelsea had enjoyed in Branson.  And if anyone says, “Orlando,” even in a TV commercial, Brett and I look at each other and say, “Let’s go!”

When I’m revising a manuscript, I do a word search for just. Experience has taught me that I tend to over-use it and that many times it is not needed. In fact, the sentence is stronger without it.

This time I eliminated just twenty-two times in a manuscript that is 160 pages long. I did not cut every just. I left some of them, twice I replaced it with only, and a few times I completely rewrote the sentence, but there were still twenty-two unnecessary words and my book is better without them. Example: The heading on today’s blog would be better without the first word.

Years ago, I often began a line of dialogue with the word Well. “Well, it was my turn.”  “Well, let’s go see where she is.” I finally broke myself of that bad habit, so I no longer need to do a word search for Well.

I’m meeting Anne and Kevin for lunch today. Tomorrow Bob and Pam arrive for a two-day visit. I love spending time with my kids.

A few weeks ago, I blogged about the wonders of the World Wide Web. Later I realized that I’d aimed that post at my own age group, some of whom remain resistant to the marvels of e-mail and Internet usage. The kids who read my books would read about what I’d learned on line and think, “Well, duh.”

So to balance the discussion, I’d like to say that I love newspapers. Always have. One of the joys of my life is to read the morning newspaper every day while I sip my first cup of coffee. Now that I’ve officially passed the age of retirement, I also allow myself the luxury of working the daily crossword puzzle. My mother worked the puzzle every day in ink. I can see her sitting in her recliner, with a towel across her lap so she wouldn’t get newspaper ink on her robe. “What’s an eight letter word for hard rain?” she’d ask, but before I could reply, she’d already be writing downpour. I’m not confident enough to use ink but I usually complete the entire puzzle.

I currently subscribe to the Tacoma News Tribune. It isn’t a journalistic wonder but it gives me both the national headlines and the news of my area. It also holds wonderful surprises, such as instructions on how to prune rhododendruns, which appeared on the very day I had intended to Google that topic. Yesterday there was an article, with photo, about a sandstone sculpture that’s being created for my town’s centennial celebration this July. I read only a few of the comics, but I’m devoted to those few, and if I’ve missed last night’s baseball game, I get a quick overview.

For many years I lived in California and took the San Francisco Chronicle. It remains my favorite daily newspaper. My friends, Larry and Myra Karp, brought me so many interesting articles from the Sunday New York Times that I finally asked them to routinely save the whole shebangs for me, which they do.

I know you can read newspapers on line, but it isn’t the same. I like to hold the thin sheets of paper in my hands, and hear the slight swish of the pages turning. I want to fold it in half and then thirds, with the crossword puzzle in front.

Update on Rosie: the potential adopter’s husband nixed having an indoor cat, so Rosie is still with me, awaiting a permanent home.

This morning I’m meeting my granddaughter, Brett, for breakfast. She finished her freshman year of college, got home last night, and has two days before she leaves for her summer job at a resort on Orcas Island. We’re meeting at Lil’ John’s, where, if I’m lucky, I will have a perfect cinnamon roll.

I am a cinnamon roll connoisseur. Carl was, too. We’ve ordered cinnamon rolls at restaurants all across the country and Lil’ John’s are usually the best. They are big, soft, more like bread than pastry, with just the right amount of vanilla frosting. I use the qualifier, usually, because once in a while, perhaps one percent of the time, I’ll get one that isn’t soft. The edges are crusty, as if it has been sitting around since the day before. Five star cinnamon rolls must be fresh.

Baking a great cinnamon roll is a lot like writing a great book. Theoretically, anyone should be able to do it. A baker takes readily available ingredients – flour, sugar, yeast, cinnamon – and mixes them together to make cinnamon rolls. Yet those same ingredients come out in a wide variety of ways, depending on who is combining them. Much depends on how the dough is kneaded, how it rises, the temperature of the oven and how quickly the roll is served.

Writers take words – a Dictionary full, available to anyone – and combine them to tell a story. If the person who’s mixing a batch of words does it skillfully and with great care, the end result will be worth reading. Just as a batch of dough needs time to rise, a manuscript needs time for revisions. You can’t just stir the words together and call the book finished. It must be created with care.

Today’s breakfast will be a joy no matter what I eat because I’m meeting Brett. And when I get back home, I’ll measure another cup of words, sift a simile, and stir a fresh idea or two into my current manuscript.

Mother’s silver charm bracelet began as a “grandma bracelet,” with charms engraved with the names and birth dates of her six grandchildren. Some are profiles of a little girl or boy; others are plain silver discs. Next Mother added a charm for me and one for my brother, Art. After decades of marriage, she got a new diamond wedding ring, and added her original slim silver ring to the bracelet.

A tiny silver pig dangles from the bracelet – a tribute to my father’s many years with the Hormel Company. There is also a charm from Portugal. I have no idea what its significance is other than knowing that my parents once took a trip to Portugal. Eventually, Mother added charms for her great-grandchildren. She wore the bracelet for special family occasions, and she always wore it on Mother’s Day.

After my mother died, Art and I made plans to meet at her home, to distribute her belongings. Mother had lived in California. Art and his wife, Joan, flew in from Minnesota. Carl and I planned to drive our pickup from Washington so that I could bring home a small chest of drawers, the only item my mother had which had belonged to HER mother. I also wanted to keep Mother’s “every day” dishes, the Spode Buttercup pattern which I had always loved. Her “good” dishes were white Haviland that had originally belonged to my dad’s mother.

As I left the house to make that sad journey, I fell and broke my ankle. Five hours, X-rays, and a cast later, I went home with instructions to keep the ankle elevated for a couple of days. As a polio survivor, I didn’t have enough arm strength to use crutches, so I was in a wheelchair for several weeks. I was unable to get in or out of the chair without Carl’s assistance. Travel was impossible. Mother had sold her condo before she died and it needed to be emptied for the buyers, so Art and Joan sorted through Mother’s things without us.

Art arranged to ship the chest of drawers and the Buttercup to me. I tried to think what else I might want to keep. Mother and I had different tastes. She was an elegant, stylish woman; I’m a “country girl,” most comfortable in jeans. Our homes reflected our personalities. I didn’t want any other furniture; her clothes didn’t fit me. Art called several times to ask about specific items that he thought I might want. The Haviland went to my daughter, Anne, but we gave most of the household goods to the Salvation Army.

On Mother’s Day the following year, I remembered the bracelet. Why hadn’t I thought to ask for that? When Art had called to describe Mother’s jewelry, in case I wanted any of it, he hadn’t mentioned the bracelet. I hoped Joan or one of their daughters had taken it, but when I inquired, Art said no, he didn’t remember seeing it. We assumed it had somehow been overlooked and ended up in a Salvation Army thrift store. My heart ached at the thought.

More than a year after Mother’s death, I received a FedEx package from a jewelry store in Burlingame, Calif. When I opened it, I recognized the oblong grey jewelry box, and my eyes filled with tears. Nestled inside the box was Mother’s charm bracelet!  A note from the jeweler explained that she had brought it in to have a charm added for the latest great-grandchild, but she had never returned to get the bracelet. When he tried to call her, he learned that the phone had been disconnected.

“She was a lovely lady,” he wrote, “and I know this bracelet meant a lot to her.” He had looked through his records until he found another customer who lived in the same condo complex as my mother. When he called that woman, she told him what had happened, and he explained about the bracelet. 

She knew my name, found my address, went to the jewelry store, and paid for the new charm. The jeweler sent Mother’s bracelet to me.

Each year on Mother’s Day, when I remove the precious bracelet from its box and fasten it around my wrist, I not only remember my mother, but I silently thank her neighbor and the jeweler, two generous people who took the time to return a family heirloom to someone they did not know.

I am working on a new book, trying to add 500 words per day. First drafts are always slow for me but I’ve learned to trust the process. If I keep slogging along, adding scenes, creating dialogue, and fleshing out characters, at some point it will all come together and I will have a story that I care about. That’s when the fun part, revision, begins.

Tuesday was the five year anniversary of my husband’s death. My son-in-law, Kevin, came out and repaired the bird feeders that the deer had knocked over. (My deer LOVE birdseed!) Carl had built one of those feeders so it seemed especially appropriate to have it restored to use. Kevin found the perfect downed tree in my woods, cut it to the right length and mounted the trunk in the dirt. Once Carl’s feeder was attached and filled, I went inside to see how it looked from my kitchen window. When I looked out, there were already two finches dining on sunflower seeds. I also have a wonderful new hummingbird feeder which gets lots of customers.

I attended a LIFE class about the Prison Pet Partnership program, where women inmates train dogs from local shelters to become service dogs. I’ve supported this program for many years (one of the dogs in Shelter Dogs graduated from the PPP system) but this was the first time I had heard a formal presentation about it. Two of the dogs-in-training attended the class.

Today I’m going to a birthday party for my good friend and fellow writer, Larry Karp. It will be a fun day with many long-time friends. Stolen Children and Spy Cat were dedicated to Larry and his wife, Myra.

Molly is feeling better. She has gained back some of the weight she had lost, and she’s more active. Several months ago when the vet diagnosed a kidney problem, the only suggested treatment was a prescription cat food which Molly steadfastly refused to eat. I finally gave it up and let her eat what she wants, namely Fancy Feast Ocean Whitefish and Tuna. Yes, it has to be that particular kind and not the fillet type but the mushy stuff. She has taken to sleeping on my printer while I’m working. I put a towel on it to keep the fur out. She often turns the printer on. Never off.  You can see who runs my household.

 Abduction! has won the Iowa Children’s Choice Award.  Whohoo! 

The Iowa award is an old-fashioned brass school bell, with a walnut handle. The bell is engraved with the title of the winning book, the author’s name, and the year.  My previous Iowa bells were awarded for Nightmare Mountain in 1993, Terror at the Zoo in 1996, and Escaping the Giant Wave in 2006.

Over the years, I have used these school bells as dinner bells. When my grandchildren were small, they loved to ring one of the bells when a meal was ready. We’ve rung the Iowa bells at midnight on New Year’s Eve, to celebrate the beginning of a new year.  Once, I even rang one of the bells to let a black bear know that I would appreciate it if he stayed off my front porch!

When the third bell was given to me I told the chair of the ICC committee that I really hoped I’d eventually win one more. “I want four school bells,” I told her, “so that each of my four grandchildren can inherit one.”

Along with the notification that I’m the 2009 winner was a note saying now there was a bell for each grandchild.

Good news: Yesterday I learned that The Ghost’s Grave has won the 2009 Sunshine State Award. This is the Florida young reader award, my third time to win that honor. Hooray!

Bad news: On my way to a charity dinner/auction on Sunday, I took a detour and saw, for the first time, Holstein calves in veal crates. I was sickened by the sight. I quit eating veal more than thirty years ago when I first learned of the cruelty involved in producing this meat. On line the next day I learned that the federal laws on this matter are changing, but slowly. Several states have made the confinement crates illegal.  Meanwhile I am haunted by the faces of these beautiful animals who were unable to stand or turn around.

More good news: I have some new bookplates that I love. If you have one of my books and would like to have a signed bookplate to put in it, send me a self-addressed stamped envelope and I’ll mail one to you. Send it to: Bookplate, P.O. Box 303, Wilkeson WA 98396.